Black day he chose for planting thee,Accurst he rear'd thee from the ground,The bane of children yet to be,The scandal of the village round.His father's throat the monster press'dBeside, and on his hearthstone spilt,I ween, the blood of midnight guest;Black Colchian drugs, whate'er of guiltIs hatch'd on earth, he dealt in all—Who planted in my rural steadThee, fatal wood, thee, sure to fallUpon thy blameless master's head.The dangers of the hour! no thoughtWe give them; Punic seaman's fearIs all of Bosporus, nor aughtReeks he of pitfalls otherwhere;The soldier fears the mask'd retreatOf Parthia; Parthia dreads the thrallOf Rome; but Death with noiseless feetHas stolen and will steal on all.